tumbling worlds
by caspeter
Summary: In the aftermath of the storm, Tristan is forced to come to terms with the truth of what had gone on with Grant, and he might have to face the consequences sooner than he'd be ready to. A fix-it fic, completely canon up until about halfway through Thunderstruck, part two. Very slight Tristan/Miles.


**A/N:** This fic might be a little bit of a long one now that I have nothing but time to actually sit down and write. Even though this chapter rips a lot of dialogue from Thunderstruck, the rest of the chapters won't follow canon at all. This goes without saying but if you are easily upset or triggered by anythign regarding statutory rape, then I don't suggest reading on.

* * *

Tristan Milligan had always been so in love with the idea of love. He'd known it made him vulnerable, but had always assumed he'd be smart enough - had assumed he'd just _know_ when someone was his True Love. But as he stood, outside the Hollingsworth mansion, the rain and the wind whipping around him, a perfect metaphor for the way he was feeling at that moment, the cold reality of it all came crashing down around him.

He _had_ been stupid. He'd been stupid, he'd been so vulnerable. Looking back on it now, even having only known the truth for - fuck, how long had he been standing out here? Five minutes? - it was all so fuckign _obvioius_ and for the first time in his life, he kicked himself for not having listened to Maya and Zoë. Not that he would ever tell them that.

"If I've learned anything this year, it's that nobody will ever truly love you". Miles' words had stung, they'd cut so deep, but even though it wasn't what Tristan had wanted to hear, perhaps it'd been what he needed to hear. It was true. He'd thought Grant had loved him, but apparently that had all been a lie. Apparently any boy would've done. It proved something Tristan had always known, something he'd spent so much of his life trying to prove wrong - he was nothing special.

He wasn't Maya with her pretty blonde hair and songwriting skills, and he wasn't a famous actress like Zoë, he was just… _Tristan_. Boring, uninteresting and altogether nothing worth falling in love with.

" _Tristan!"_ Miles' voice derailed Tristan's train of thought, and he felt his stomach sink into his shoes. At least the rain meant Miles couldn't see him cry. _Took you long enough to come after me,_ he thought, bitterly, but shook that thought out of his mind quickly. He was lucky anyone gave enough fucks to go after him at all, really.

"Come inside, it's dangerous out here!"

"Just leave me to the storm!" He heard Miles scoff, and yes, alright, that was a little dramatic, even for Tristan, but right then he didn't care. He deserved pneumonia or scars from a fallen tree branch or whatever else would come from standing in the middle of a storm. He'd been stupid enough to let Yates use him the way he had, after all.

"Did you really have a thing with Yates?" Tristan could hear the hesitance in Miles' voice as he asked the question, as if he was hoping for an answer other than the one he knew he was going to receive. And God, Tristan wished he could give him any other answer.

"I thought we were in love. Obviously I was wrong, who could ever truly love me, right?" Part of Tristan wanted for Miles to tell him that was bullshit, that _he_ loved him. That's what would happen if this was a movie, after all. But thinking like that, with his head in the clouds and eyes on too many bad rom-coms was what landed him here in the first place.

Before Miles had the chance to say anything at all, however, something large and metal, God only knows what, flew toward them in a ridiculously powerful gust of wind, and before Tristan even registered what was going on, Miles' hand was on his shoulder and their bodies were on the ground. Neither one of them spoke, instead breathing heavily as they stared at one another. _If this was a rom-com, this is where we'd kiss._ Tristan allowed himself that one thought, and maybe, just maybe, if he'd been slightly braver, if he'd been the same person he'd been back in the Paris days, or, Hell, twenty minutes ago, he'd have voiced that. So he remained silent, trying desperately to look anywhere but Miles' lips - which was more easily said than done when their faces were inches apart and the only other available thing to look at was the wet concrete.

Whatever deity was up there seemed to take pity on him, though, and a clap of thunder accented with a burst of lightning was enough to shake both boys from whatever spell had been cast over them for those few seconds. Gathering their senses, they stood, and headed for safety inside.

"C'mon, someone's gotta keep an eye on Frankie and Winston!" Miles joked, a clear attempt to lighten the mood, but Tristan just hoped Miles wouldn't bring up Yates again, and what had almost been discussed in the storm would stay in the storm.

Behind the couch they started at may not have been the smartest place to hide, but Tristan didn't particularly have it in him to think up hiding places for a game of Murder. All he really wanted then was to be alone. Lost in his own thoughts, Tristan couldn't help but jump when he heard someone jump forward to grab onto the couch from behind him.

"How did you find me?" He applauded himself internally for being able to keep his voice sounding light and joking.

"Circling back to the starting point? Oldest trick in the book." Silence fell between the two of them, and Tristan could feel the air change into something more serious, able to feel the question Miles was about to ask before he even asked it. "I wanted to make sure you were okay after… Out there?" It might have been a statement, but Miles' voice lifted up at the end, a clear question forming.

Tristan smiled weakly, "do you have the lighter?" he hoped that would be enough for Miles, hoped he'd pick up on the hint that _Tristan absolutely did not want to talk about this right now._ But Miles' facial expression didn't lighten, instead it melted into something soft and almost _pitying._ Tristan hated it.

He didn't want to be pitied. Because that meant he'd been used, and even though now, now he knew on some level that he had, it wasn't something he wanted to openly admit everyone knew.

"Tris…" Miles' voice was gentle, warm and friendly. It was clear he was trying his best to seem non-threatening and inviting, but it made Tristan's gut wrench, being looked at like some helpless animal on the side of the road Miles was trying desperately not to scare off.

"Miles, I don't - I don't want to do this right now. Okay?" In his mind, the words were cutting and clear, and Miles would nod once before continuing the game as if nothing had happened, but of course, the way he spoke was with a wavering tone and a voice break, and Miles was clearly unconvinced. It didn't help that Miles was literally standing over him where he sat, making him feel even more cornered and small.

A few of the longest seconds of silence later, Tristan had never been so glad for Winston and his bad timing as he stumbled into the room and broke up whatever Tristan had to say next, shining his flashlight over at where Miles stood. The look Miles gave him as he excused himself to go upstairs told him that the conversation wasn't over, but Tristan was hell bent on avoiding it as long as he possibly could.

Even though the guest bed he'd been put in was comfortable enough and he'd somehow managed to escape any more interactions with Miles that evening, Tristan found himself completely unable to sleep, but it had nothing to do with the ever present storm raging loudly outside, and everything to do with the one currently raging _inside_. Being alone was what he'd wanted all evening, and yet, it only seemed to make everything seem so much _worse_. Curled up in the large bed, he couldn't help but allow his mind to drift, back to just a few weeks prior, when he had been so naive, and so easily controlled by Yates.

" _You should go." Grant's voice was cold, the same way it always was after they slept together, and every time it felt like a glass shattering moment, like the fairytale ideas of romance Tristan had built up in his head since he was a little boy were crumbling around him over and over. He knew he shouldn't feel badly about the way things were going, after all Grant was gorgeous, he was smart and most importantly he was in love with Tristan._

" _I mean, my parents think I'm at Maya's, so I could stay a little? We could have something to eat?" he asked, voice raising teasingly at the end of the sentence as he smiled cheekily, but Grant's face remained emotionless, and Tristan felt his momentary happiness sink back into his gut. "Or I could go." he mumbled, standing to re-button his pants and shirt in an attempt to make it look like he hadn't just been fooling around with his English teacher._

 _As he made his way out the door, he heard the sound of the television being switched on, and couldn't help but feel as though he wanted to cry. Some part of him knew this wasn't what love was meant to be like, it wasn't meant to be quick fucks in secret and then forcing him out the door. It wasn't meant to be ignoring him in public or telling him he was immature and blanking him for days if he didn't feel like having sex. But it wasn't as though anyone else was pounding on his door to date him, and even though Grant wasn't as much of a traditional romantic as Tristan might've liked, it was still something. And it could've been much worse._

 _By the time Tristan was out of the hallway, all negative thoughts of his relationship with Grant were thrown out the window, and he was once again convinced by his own mind that he was just overreacting._

Tristan wasn't sure at what point during his little reminiscing session he'd started crying, or why he was finding it so difficult to breathe, but he couldn't help it now. Grant had used him, had manipulated him into doing all sorts of things he hadn't even wanted to do, and somehow… Somehow he'd thought it was alright every time. Tristan tried desperately to soothe his breathing, though that only made it worse, and it felt almost as though something were clawing at his throat to close up his airway. Everything around him seemed to go fuzzy - where exactly was he, again?

 _He tried to grope me._

Winston's words haunted his mind as he all but hyperventilated attempting to catch his breath, no longer paying any attention to the tears that were now steadily streaming down his face. Grant had tried to grope Winston. He'd never been in love with Tristan, had never even picked him out of the crowd.

He was a pedophile. A predator. The words made Tristan sick to the stomach to even think of, because predators weren't meant to be teachers or handsome young men, they were meant to be forty and stare at teenage girls on the bus and be so incredibly obvious.

Maya and Zoë had both warned him, though, so maybe he had been obvious. Maybe Grant hadn't been as charming and sweet as Tristan thought. Maybe he was just the only one who couldn't see it.

"Tris?" Cursing his loud crying and hyperventilating, Tristan curled in on himself even more s he heard soft footsteps padding down the hall toward his room. He gave Miles no response, trying to stifle his tears in the blanket, hoping maybe Miles would just decide to turn around and go back to bed. Because if Miles asked him, right now, about Grant, Tristan wasn't so sure he'd be able to avoid breaking down in front of him.

Hell, he'd already broken.


End file.
